Aela and Vilkas strode alongside their Harbringer, through Dragonsreach's hall, both warriors clearly unimpressed by the twelve Stormcloaks in their path.
Skyrim's mighty winds rushed in from the reach's gates, left wide open, and torches all over the massive room flickered, casting geometrical shadows on the walls and floor. The fire pit, surrounded by Balgruuf's banquet table, blazed and angry red, as if trying to scare off the cold pale light filtering from behind the Companions.
The result was an odd contrast of red and blue, reflected off the three Nords' faces, an almost prophetic mix of Imperial and Stormcloak colors.
Merely an hour ago, Jarl Balgruuf the Greater was cast down from his throne and replaced by Vignar Gray-Mane, both a Stormcloak and a Companion. As such, he had converted a decent number of Jorrvaskr's dwellers to his cause and earned the Companion's aide in taking the city.
A tall and muscular Nord, sporting a short beard that matched the steel of his helmet, Dunham Savage-Soul was often said to be Kodlak Whitemane had been in his youth, sprinkled with a fierce spirit of freedom and equality.
The Stormcloaks parted before the Harbinger, despite the new Jarl's instruction to let nobody in. They had seen the man fight, hack off limbs and heads with the ornate axe hanging by his side. It was not fear alone that motivated them to move, however, but a profound respect for everything this man represented as well.
Dunham walked right past the guards and his escort kept pace with equal determination, the burning light in their eyes causing Vignar to quickly review every action he had posed in the last hour in search for the slightest misstep, to no avail.
The Harbinger's voice boomed across the hall before he had even walked right of the banquet table, in the center of the hall, "Vignar! Explain to me why half of Balgruuf's guard is now hanging by the neck over the northern gate!"
The new Jarl, comfortably seated in his throne, could only frown at that question and he answered carefully, "Ulfric's orders were clear; no survivor but Balgruuf himself… We want to send a message here!"
As he reached the corner of the table, Savage-Soul halted his ferocious advance, mirrored by Vilkas, on the left. Aela remained at the far edge of the table, eyeing a recently opened bottle of mead.
Dunham's hard face twisted in an apologetic grimace, "Oh," he spoke, softer, "I am very sorry, the High King has spoken then…" He let doubt settle in his interlocutor's mind, regarding whether or not he was being sarcastic, then slammed his fist on the table. "Shor's bones, Vignar! Were you always this soft or has Ulfric's hatred rotted your mind?"
"Watch your tone, young man!" The Jarl bellowed, standing up a hand on the hilt of his sword, "You know nothing of the horrors the Thalmor will inflict…"
"I was there in the war!" The sheer hatred in that response was frightening, the Harbinger's blue eyes suddenly filled with murder, "I know what we are fighting against, ant it's not the Thalmor!" He gestured in the northern gate's general direction, "We fight for our identity, we fight to remain true Nords, like Ysgramor and Talos, like Kodlak and Eorlund! This is not our ways, we respect our foes, we fight like warriors and walk away our head high!" Both men had way too much respect for the names he had spoken to waste them on petty squabbles and the following silence was thick with guilt.
Casting a shamed glance to Vilkas, Savage-Soul admitted he had once again lost his calm and grew quiet, letting his shield-brother do the talking.
Vilkas stepped forward and removed his helmet. Speaking in a far more controlled manner, he exposed the situation to the Jarl, "We have been shield-brothers since long before this war started, Vignar, I have always trusted your judgement and I dare hope you will trust mine today…"
Vignar, looked from Dunham to Vilkas, to someone in an adjacent room, out of sight from where the Companions stood. After a moment, he turned to the Harbinger and stepped forward, hand held out, "It was not my place to assume on what you know or not, shield-brother, forgive me."
There was no hesitation in the bigger man's response; Dunham took his comrade's forearm in a strong and sincere grip, adding a pat on the shoulder for emphasis, "Forgiven," he waited a second, then spoke again, "I should have shown more respect, you have proved your honor time and time again, forgive my temper…"
Vignar nodded and, the almost ritualistic exchange over, turned back to Vilkas. "I would trust you with my life, kid," he spoke, a warm smile painted on his face, "speak."
Vilkas, smiling as well, turned to the Stormcloaks guarding the hall, "The Companions never picked sides before and for good reason. Today, we broke that rule and it has come back to haunt us." Vilkas was not one of emotional display, but his tone and posture spoke volume of the weight that now pushed down on the young Nord. He decided to cut the speech short: "Today, we betrayed men we grew up with, men who trusted us; our hands are tainted with the blood of friends and family…"
He observed Whiterun's new Jarl with interest, looking for any reaction, but Vignar seemed lost in his thoughts. The Gray-Manes were only one of many clans in Whiterun. How many families had been torn apart by this sudden shift in politics? How many old friends were now drowning in their own blood? How many young pups he had seen raised into proud Nord warrior, to become even prouder members of the city guard, now hung from the northern wall?
Bloodshed is so much easier when you think of the enemy as some faceless abomination… He had helped raise a lot of the lads the Stormcloaks were now busy executing! Most likely, if he went out there and looked closely at the hangmen, he would know all of them by name.
He turned to the person in the other room and spoke, firmly, "No more execution… This is not a discussion! I want the prisoners freed now!" He looked at the Companions and added, softly this time, "Ulfric controls Whiterun now, his men answer to him before me, my hands are tied."
Dunham smirked at that, visibly in a much better mood than he had been earlier, "We've had whelps coming in from both armies since the fighting's stopped, Jorrvaskr is now full of new recruits being tested by Njada and Athis. We will take over security in Whiterun, if Ulfric's boys misbehave, we'll set them straight, otherwise, let them play conquering army all they want, we don't declare war, that's not how the Companions work."
Vilkas stepped in to clarify; "They are free to stay here, so long as they earn their keep and leave the people alone. Jorrvaskr will administer justice and protect the Hold, as we always have."
A Stormcloak general, all steel and fur, burst in from the left side of the room, apparently intent on sparking a new shouting contest. "A band of sellswords and mercenaries administrating a Hold? This is madness!" He was the one Vignar had been speaking to earlier and this interruption did not please the old man in the least.
Vilkas frowned at that, overcoming a strange desire of yelling something about this being Skyrim and, instead, replied "Mercenaries? The Companions of Ysgramor have been in Whiterun since before the time of Talos, we are warriors wishing to defend their home."
"If you are true Nords, then you will side with Ulfric and help us free Skyrim!" The General drew his sword and issued one last ultimatum, "Either you are with us, or you're against us, Vignar, make your choice!"
Dunham smiled in his beard. One time, as he and Vilkas had been discussing the feud between Gray-Mane and Battle-Born, Vilkas had called it a 'Pet peeve', to which Farkas had objected something along the lines of "I have pet peeves, the Gray-Manes don't, they have major psychotic hatreds." All of the Companions present decreed that truer words had never been spoken and resolved to have a whelp carve it over house Gray-Mane's door.
Sure enough, Vignar pulled his own skyforge steel sword from his belt and took a step towards Vilkas and the General, "You foolish boy, I am a Companion, I am Gray-Mane, I am Nord and I don't need your rebellion to be!" He swung his weapon expertly and the Companions sprang into action, Aela unleashing a lightning-quick volley of arrows at the Stormcloaks before pulling her dagger when the first ones got in range.
Three of them survived the barrage, a bit too many for Aela to handle alone, fortunately, Dunham was not one to miss out on a good fight and his antique Nord axe soared through the room to burry itself in a young soldier's helmet, reducing Aela's trouble to two enemies. She dodged and rolled backward on the table to evade a swing from a longsword.
The iron weapon buried itself in the wood of the table and its owner had to pull twice before it was yanked free. The other man had already climbed on the table, mace in hand, to meet the huntress, but was cut in half by Vilkas' greatsword. The last warrior, sword held tightly in his hands, heaved a weary sigh and simply watched as Dunham retrieved his axe.
"Fists only, lad," The Harbinger's voice was soft, almost fatherly, "no need for good warrior to shed blood over a glorified drunken brawl."
The lad cast off his helmet and sword, revealing herself to be a lass, as they say in Riften. This did not faze Savage-Soul in the least and he assumed a fighting stance without a word. Near the throne, the sound of blood being spilled marked the end of another duel, though this was unimportant at the moment.
The woman seemed about to throw the first punch, but an idea dawned in her wide grey eyes and she dropped her guard. "If I lose, you will let me leave?"
Dunham nodded once.
"And if I win?"
"I'll make you a fully-fledged Companion, armor, skyforge sword, everything."
He understood his mistake the next instant, finding himself unable to touch the small warrior, though getting himself hammered with powerful punches and kicks. This was not a case of some lumbering beast of a man fighting a small and swift foe, far from it, Dunham was decently fast on his feet and an agile fighter by most accounts. No, the tiny Nord woman, having grown up with five bigger brother, had simply become accustomed to fighting bigger, stronger and more experienced foes…
Or, as Vilkas summarized, "Thus ends the Savage-Soul family-tree…"
Clutching his groin and groaning in pain on the floor, Dunham tried to find a witty comeback, but emitted only an incoherent threat about catnip and silver.
Back on his throne, Vignar Gray-Mane beckoned Aela over to discuss the future of Whiterun.
She stepped down from her perch, leaving Vilkas and the newest recruit to poke fun at the venerable and now sterile Harbinger. The whole thing had been Dunham's idea, but he was not in charge of anything, not really, and anyone in the Circle was allowed to speak for the Companions, so she did:
"You are the best suited to run the hold, so we will entrust it to you." Aela spoke, filling two mugs to the brim with mead. She then casually walked up to the throne, where she handed Vignar one. " Rule honorably, follow the Companion's beliefs and give us our share of the taxes, that's all we ask."
So this would really happen, the Companions of Ysgramor were finally getting involved in the war by pretty much telling both sides to shove their war right up there… Ulfric was bound to seek retribution and Tullius most certainly would try to take back this strategic location, but Savage-Soul, like Whitemane before him, held a lot of influence within all nine holds; defying him openly, even in light of this 'betrayal', would cost both sides a lot of support… Maybe?
This was all too complicated for the old soldier and he couldn't help but smile upon realizing the very nature of the Companions meant this was not even his problem.
Dunham finally pulled himself up and threw a single solid punch at the Stormcloak's face. He then grabbed the same bottle of mead Aela had and emptied it in a few gulps.
"Welcome in the five hundred companions," he tossed the bottle in the angered flames, "whelp."
Outside, the victorious Stormcloak army was quite puzzled when their officers left the mead hall of Jorrvaskr wobbly and confused, to relay the good news, or bad news, depending on their level of inebriation. All in all, the transition was smooth, for much of the young warriors that made up the army jumped on this opportunity to join the famed Companions and most did not even comprehend this constituted some form of treason.
A few hours into the night, after the fires had been put out and patrols organized, a handful of Stormcloak officers managed to rally whatever loyal men they still had and assaulted Dragonsreach, intent on forcing Vignar off the throne.
There, they were met by a feast of epic proportions, a celebration for something most were too drunk to remember and, when questioned on the Jarl's whereabouts, every Companion echoed the same response: "What Jarl? There's no Jarl in Whiterun anymore!"
Faced with this incomprehensible situation, the men agreed to drink until they no longer cared.